Trauma Center: Perioperative Mortality
by Angelglitched
Summary: To end the world with medical terrorism - not simple with things like Caduceus and Resurgam standing in the way. But just clean up a few flaws that the original GUILT had - now that job is simple. A story told in five acts, post UtK2. Requesting for critiques, reviews, flames if so. T is for general character harm. Currently: Act 3, Prologue.
1. Prologue

Another four Sinners.

She gazed at the tubes, each with their own treasure writhing around within the confines of the glass walls, as they softly glowed with the clinical light of the lamp above.

The taped-on labels bore their names etched in black marker, each a symbol of her world. The world. As she viewed it, yes, but surely it was not just her? It was everyone. The world that was viewed by everyone – their perception of the world, just as their perception of her creation.

The creator was not her, no, no. That honour belonged to someone else. Adam. The first man. The man who created the first family, using the Sinners, all seven of them. Eight, maybe.

The young woman leaned back and sighed, weariness finally catching up with her. The months that had gone into her research had finally paid off in the form of her creations - no, derivatives. Similar, yet all the more different than their ancestors.

The Sinners she used were special. Designed to shield their precious secrets from the human eye, only letting them free when their points were driven home upon her plans. Of course, no one would ever see them coming, let alone expect them from the last things they would expect things like these from.

Her tense lips allowed her only a small smile. With her opus magnum written down and laid out on the table before her, she would watch and smile as the world drowned in the mix of ink and blood.


	2. πεποίθηση: Kadian

The cold, dark metal felt heavy in his hands. Its chain wrapped around his fingers, tying them up in its solid grasp. The palm-sized pocket watch dangled from it, swinging from left, to right, back again.

It had been quite some time since he last wore it. The watch with the spiral engraved on its cover. There had been a reason.

The reason why he still kept it eluded him. It was probably sentiment, or maybe just for the memory. Either way, it had been sitting in a locked drawer of his desk collecting dust, along with the black orange-lined coat he used to wear.

Pulling that out as well, he dusted it from top to bottom. Wearing it again felt strange, almost alien, yet different than the very first time he had put it on. The feeling of burden suddenly dropping down upon your shoulders was a different one. It was a different load?

Adjusting his tie, smoothing his hair, then finally looping the watch right around his neck. Almost as if it was a noose.

Well, given the situation, most probably.

He tiptoed quietly out of his office, trying hard not to look suspicious. When you're a man in a black coat with sunglasses over your eyes in a forensic institute, not easy. Dr. Kimishima would have a fit if she caught him wandering around like that, for both the sake of the strangeness as well as because he just dug up half her unwanted memories. Hey, she was not alone.

His boots made quick, low thuds on the floor as he scurried down the hallways, avoiding as many people as he could. Slipping past the pantry, examination room, research labs, Dr. Kimishima's office –

He saw her office door was open.

Well. Standing on one side of the door was him, and he was not sure if he could get past that cruel stare if he got caught here. But he could not possibly involve her in this one – no, never.

Speaking of which, he wondered if she had received the letter. Maybe she did not, given that it was common knowledge to the ex-Delphi folks that she had 'defected' to Caduceus.

He could hear her hammering away at her keyboard inside. Nope, probably never got the letter. Maybe she destroyed it, at paused, took in a deep breath, and crossed the line of sight in less than a second, praying hard that she did not suddenly look up. In an instant the worst part of his journey was over, and when he finally turned around to see how far he had gone, he realized he was already in the main lobby, and no Naomi following him. That was good.

Good luck. He should need it by the cartful with this mission. He prayed hard that he did not just use up all of it.


	3. πεποίθηση: Halcion

An abandoned research facility. How apt.

Navel walked smartly up to the front gates, the chilly autumn breeze sweeping around his feet, sending the fallen leaves tumbling. In a gloved hand he clutched a white envelope so tight, lest a stray wind carry it off, or worse.

His host would be inside, of course. Yet the lack of people around made him feel suspicious. Was it really just a prank, or was there someone who wanted to reform Delphi under their own hands?

The envelope he received surely cannot be the only one.

At least, if it was a trap, he still had his credentials on him. Say he was on a recon mission after being tipped off by some anonymous dude. Believable enough. The letter would be proof, and he would have only wasted three hours in finding the place, driving here, and letting the curtained surprise fool himself into pumping out adrenaline.

Or, if said trap was not of the good kind, there was always the pistol he kept in his pocket for emergencies.

His fingers pried open the envelope for the twentieth or so time that week, pulling out the piece of paper that he could already recite from memory. A typed invitation, formal in style, hardly any embellishments or format. Just a note. Could have been a memo, for all he knew.

And obviously no fingerprints, saliva, hair whatsoever. Whoever that wrote the note was either a hygiene freak or dressed top to toe in a hazmat suit while typing, printing and sealing said letter, which was highly unlikely anyway.

He walked through the iron-wrought gates, skirting the pebbles strewn about the pathway to the slightly ajar doors. They were at least three times of him stacked up together, leaning upon their rusty hinges like cobweb-wrapped skeletons.

Beyond, there was hardly any light. Navel was sure that he probably would lose sight of his own hand somewhere down whatever lay behind the doors.

If he had not remembered to bring a flashlight, that is.

A small click and the hallway before him appeared as the yellow light swarmed in. Even the dust did not stir at his entrance, merely lying on the floor as a thick grey carpet, showing three other sets of footprints.

Bending over, he quickly snapped a few photos of the footprints, taking note that none of them seemed to point back to the door.

Walking on, he soon came to the main hall of the facility. Completely devoid of furniture, unless dust carpets count, the place seemed… occupied, somehow.

The letter led him down one of the staircases, around a corner, towards a heavily bolted door, a pale white light surrounding its edges like a cornea. Navel rapped his fist on the cold steel – thunk, thunk, thunk.

Silence. Then the scraping of a chair. And the low, bated breaths of someone waiting behind the door. By the light of the adjacent room, he read the letter yet again, just to make sure he got his instructions right. Clearing his throat, he spoke to his host.

"I am the holder of belief."

The password written in the letter made the door yield to him. Standing in the doorway was a young woman, probably no later than her thirties. She had a heavily stained lab coat – black with an orange outline – wrapped around her shoulders, hanging limply on her skeletal frame.

"Belief," she answered, her barely audible voice further dampened by the heavy air. "The first."

She led him into the laboratory, the only room in the facility that seemed to be at least in a decent state. The bright lights refracted off the numerous glassware, ranging from test tubes to conical flasks all piled around on the tables, amongst the stacks of paper and the occasional stationery.

She pulled out a chair from seemingly nowhere and rolled it towards him.

"Please. Take a seat."

The woman then flopped down on her own chair and held out her hand.

"Pleased to meet you, holder of belief."

He did not take it.

"You have called me for?"

"To assist in our founder's honorable goal once again."

He had to suppress a smile at that one.

"Cut the princess talk, miss. We aren't in the Victorian era anymore."

Her face turned slightly red.

"I-I… But it's true. I require your assistance."

"About? Don't tell me it's another wannabe GUILT strain. Besides, what part of 'disbanded' did you not understand?"

"It does not matter. As long as at least one of us still survives, we will carry on Adam's orders. Isn't that the same as the bacteria that infect us? Who says those that survive the wave of antibiotic gel will just lie down and die?"

"So… you want to restart Delphi?"

"I can assure you, nothing like that."

Once again with the haughty attitude.

"But," she continued, "We do not need an entire organization to carry out the biomedical apocalypse when all you need is just five people."

"Five people?"

"You and three others, and me. That is all it takes."

"Really."

Her cool gaze froze his own the moment he tried to pry information from her eyes. Navel swallowed a mouthful of saliva in shock.

She was actually serious about it.

"Okay… miss. Who put you up to this joke?"

"Joke?"

"Yes. Joke. The first GUILT alone needed Delphi to back it, and even then we needed Eidoth as a cover. And Neo-GUILT had rich snobs behind them in case of emergency, with Acropolis and the HOA as a front. Both have failed. What makes you think you can wipe out humanity with biomedical terrorism, let alone with only a team of five?"

… Was she smiling at his question?

She got off her seat and leaned close enough to his face that he could pick out the streaks of grey in her irises. Her hand pushed something into his, a quick glance downwards showed it to be something wrapped in a small white cloth.

"Keep that with you at all times, holder of belief."

Her other hand reached behind his head and jammed something quickly up his neck – quick enough for him to only flinch and collapse back into the chair.


	4. πεποίθηση: Panadol

"Hhhhh—"

He sat up with a start. Heart crashing about wildly in his chest. Cold water on his face. No, salt. Sweat. Bright light in his eyes, he was blind. No, he just closed his eyes when the light shined in.

Opening an eye by a crack, he registered the red-walled room before him, coupled with the strong smell of antibiotic gel.

A hospital?

Nope. He was still in his clothes. And the place looked nothing like a hospital. Wait.

"Finally awake, Little Guy?"

Naomi was just sitting at her table, watching him. That would mean he was on the couch. The door leading out of her office was closed.

"Where… How did I get here?"

"Someone brought you to Resurgam, said you had collapsed."

"R-Resurgam?"

The research facility he was in only moments ago – what happened?

"Yes. The person said you had a concussion. Gabe did a routine checkup."

"Oh, that means I should be fine."

She sighed, rapping her pen against the table.

"Did you go drinking? Your blood test detected an obscene amount of alcohol present in your bloodstream."

"What? No, no. Didn't, doctor, wouldn't dream of it."

"Then?"

"Uh. Kind of hard for me to explain anyway."

She placed her pen on the table and turned to face him, arms folded over her chest.

"I'm waiting, Agent."

"A-Ah…."

Telling her about the meeting was a definite no-no. Compromise on both confidentiality, trust and self-preservation, if she decided to take matters into her own hands. Subtly, yes, but dangerous all the same. She thought he did not know about the bomb trap the Raging Bomber left for her in her apartment. Which was why he was worried this time – if she decided to do anything about it he was not in the power to stop or redirect.

"You caught me, doctor. I went out with a couple of friends and got stoned, I suppose."

He fell back into the couch, watching her with what he hoped was a defeated look on his face. "I should probably watch myself next time we go out to a bar."

Pray hard that she accepted it…

"… Don't do it again next time. I don't want you puking all over my evidence."

"Yeah, sure."

Good.

She turned her attention back to the large folder of papers sitting open on her table, picking up her pen again.

"In any case, you had better get back to work. Chief Wayne won't be happy with you slacking off during office hours, Little Guy."

"R-Right away, doctor."

With that, he was out the door, his chest full of relief.

Maybe he did go drinking or something, and the entire thing was just a drunken hallucination. Or maybe not, and it was all real. The threat of a new GUILT.

Either way, his throat itched. Maybe he should get a cup of coffee, at least.

Pantry was three doors down from his office. He made a quick dash there, grabbed the nearest sachet of powder and dumped its contents into a mug, followed by the hot water and sugar.

Sweet. Wait, that would be bad for his throat.

He stopped his hand just as the sugar resting in the spoon it held started to tip over into his cup. With just a little bit of longing he replaced the sugar, and took a spoonful of mint syrup to add instead. Stir for a little bit, ignoring that slightly irritating itch, down the cup.

First. Never down a cup of anything that had just been freshly made with hot water.

Second. Mint does nothing to save your throat from the torrent of hot water you just threw down. Worse if you have a sore throat.

For the next few minutes he was running around in the pantry, screaming at the top of his lungs as the combined pain and itch wrecked their way throughout his senses. Crashing around, upsetting newspapers, chairs, cups, plates, chugging down ice cold water in a bid to soothe his throat – nope, it got worse. Extremely unbearable. Spluttering, he threw the cups aside, dragging himself towards the fridge. With a yank he got the freezer door open. His hand crammed into the ice box and grabbed a few blocks of ice, which he hastily swallowed whole, dropped the ice box to the floor, and banged his head against the table leg while trying to survive the onset of brain-freeze, the cold lumps that had gotten lost at the fork between his gullet and his lungs and the searing pain from his agitated throat.

"The hell are you doing?!"

He felt someone grab him by the shoulder and pull him into a sitting position, and a force rammed into his middle so hard he felt like he would throw up. He swallowed anything that was going to shove itself up just in time.

"No!"

A palm slammed hard onto his back, the impact sending the ice cubes right back up and out. They landed some distance off on the tiled floor, skittering across the bumps until they crashed against the opposite wall.

His windpipe cleared, he took in a few deep breaths, then realized that he had not done that since he ate the ice cubes. Must have choked on them, then.

The arm wrapped around his waist slid off. Oh right, there still was someone here.

"That's quite the mess you made."

That was an understatement. A lot of cups and mugs had been pushed to the floor, the pieces scattered everywhere, the rest of the ice dumped unceremoniously right beside him, the original cup of mint-flavored coffee lying on its side, the small pool of liquid caffeine seeping into the newspapers stacked at once side of the table. Chairs upside down around the table, too.

"I-I'm sorry. I'll clean it."

"No, Little Guy. You'll probably just make a bigger mess."

Naomi sighed and shook her head, nudging him away from the pantry and placing a small cup of water and a few tablets in his hand.

"…Paracetamol?"

"Eat two tablets and get some rest. I'll be back with something for that cough of yours later."

No choice but to follow her orders, he supposed.


	5. πεποίθηση: Zyprexa

When he woke up again three hours later, his throat was worse. Before, it was just an annoying little itch.

Looks like the hot water mint and ice mix had turned it into a monster gnawing away at the rest of his neck.

He had gone back to his office and slept at his table. Unknowingly, he had rolled over the keyboard in his sleep, making his sore cheek look like a waffle when he finally got up.

Near his hand was a small sachet of throat lozenges with a note attached.

"You probably should go see a doctor with that cough of yours. –Dr. Kimishima."

Maybe. At least the trip to Resurgam First Care was not that long. In less than an hour he was already in the lobby, waiting his turn to see the diagnostician.

He recalled that he was what Naomi made fun of him about during the pandemic. Hm.

The hospital was busy. No, busy did not even begin to cover it. Doctors, nurses and patients all were a constant blur, either hurrying to and fro with their duties or on their way to heal some sort of malady that had unfortunately befallen them.

He watched as the previous patient, a young boy with a dark green mop for a head walk out, small hands holding down an oversized blue sweater with a smile on his face. The itch suddenly escalated into a cough, and soon he was in a wheezing fit, spluttering as he tried to soothe his throat.

Naomi was right.

The doctor was in. Seating himself down on the chair in front of the cluttered table, he watched in silence as the fluffy-haired doctor rifled through his records.

"So, what seems to be the problem today?"

"I… er. I have a sore throat, I think."

"Could tell that from your stint outside."

Was his coughing really that loud?

The doctor turned to the large computer in one side of the office, waving his hand in front of its display screen.

"RONI, take note of that."

The screen blinked into life, showing a simple red background with three spinning rings inside.

"Symptom noted. Coughing."

"Anything else?" asked the doctor, turning back to him. "Eaten anything bad lately?"

"Uh… no. Just cough medicine. Oh, and mint coffee with ice."

"Right. Feeling bad anywhere?"

Navel frowned. Should he be telling the doctor about that little trip he had?

Nah.

"Uh… A little headache, that's all."

"Okay. RONI?"

"Symptom noted. Headache."

The doctor got up and walked over to his side of the table, putting the stethoscope into where his ears could be and raising the diaphragm towards him.

"I'll be needing you to lift up your shirt now."

Hastily, he pulled his clothes upwards, shivering slightly at the air-conditioned gusts of wind licking at his torso, and the ice cold disc that skated around, picking up the sounds coming from his heart, lungs and stomach. His eyes were trained upon the doctor's face, watching carefully for any signs of bad news.

When he took the stethoscope off, he was not smiling.

"RONI, dyspnea and tachycardia."

"Symptoms noted, Dr. Cunningham."

The doctor stared at him, scrutinizing every single detail with that searching gaze of his. Navel found his fingers fidgeting around, clearly uncomfortable with it.

"You didn't… run here, did you?"

"Uh… Nope. I drove here."

"Hm."

The room fell quiet for a few minutes, save for the computer's incessant whirring and the sound of nurses whispering outside the door.

"Is… Is there something wrong with me, doctor?"

"That depends on whether you can tell me anything else."

"Uh…."

The nurses outside were laughing now. Was it a joke they were sharing? The sound was slightly unsettling, though. Who could laugh that long without taking a break?

"Not really… Do the nurses like you a lot, doctor?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"

"Do they usually listen in to your door when you have patients? I mean, patient privacy and all."

The laughter suddenly stopped, plunging his mind into the watery surface of nothingness. The doctor walked over to the door and opened it, revealing an empty yellow hallway.

"Oh. They were hearing in on us?"

The expression on the doctor's face seemed to harden, and he closed the door again, going back to his desk.

"RONI, take note of that."

"Understood, doctor. Symptom noted, paracusia."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"You shouldn't really think about it, actually. But I'll be needing you to come back later for an MRI scan, okay?"

"Okay… when?"

"How about next Tuesday? Maybe at three in the afternoon."

"Should be fine, I think."

A quick scatter of fingers upon the keyboard later, the doctor handed him a slip of paper with his prescription printed on it.

"That's it for today. Just pop by the pharmacy later on to get your meds, remember to take them regularly and stuff, okay?"

"Uh… yeah. Sure, thanks, doctor."

Queuing up for the meds took longer than he expected. Maybe a slow day, or the pharmacist forgot her coffee.

When it was his turn he merely handed the slip over to the girl behind the counter, who pulled out a few things from the unseen drawers behind her. She set them upon the counter, pointing them out to him one by one.

"Codeine Linctus, for coughing and sore throat. Take seven milliliters every six to eight hours. Paracetamol, for headaches, take one to two tablets every six hours. And… uh…"

She pulled out a small box and stuffed it quickly into the plastic bag that held the rest of his meds.

"Olanzapine. Once a day, two tablets. You have to take them."

"Okay."

Having paid for the medication, he took them and went back to his office. The paperwork was not going to get itself done, medical related issues or not. Besides, it's not like a little itchy throat and the prospect of getting a brain scan scared him into not doing his work.


	6. πεποίθηση: Prozac

The rest of the day went by without much trouble. Apart from the usual soreness in his muscles from the frequent bouts of coughing, and the drowsiness from the cough syrup, he was fine. Managed to finish his paperwork on time, submit it, even squeeze in a little of the next day's work. It was a good day.

He did not tell Naomi about his appointment. Best not to make her worried, he thought.

Downing the meds with another cup of water, he set aside the empty cup on the side table and got into bed. The cough syrup's effect was rather quick and effective, as he had learned earlier that afternoon and woke up two hours later with a bad case of keyboarditis and three texts from Naomi about snoring into his microphone. In less than a few minutes after ingestion the codeine would kick in, and he would be on a one-way train to dreamland.

It would be useful. He needed the sleep. Something to convince himself that the whole affair was just a dream. The people around him were telling him that. It was not real, he had just woken up. Nothing was wrong with him. He was just down with the flu for the day – that was all.

Wait.

Sitting up, his eyes wide open, he yanked himself out of bed and dragged himself to the closet, flinging the doors open and scrabbling blindly at the layers of cloth inside. His fingers found the familiar stiff cloth, and he pulled that out, holding it up to the moonlight to check if his intuition was right. The whispering stopped, they were waiting with bated breaths.

It was his coat. Yes, he guessed right.

A quick search of the pockets turned up that white cloth-wrapped thing. This he took out, folding up his coat and placing it back into the closet, and sat down at his desk, turning the table lamp on.

The forlorn little package sat there upon his table, wrapped in its white shroud in a vague box-like shape. Pinching off the cloth, he unwrapped a plain wooden box, latched shut with an ornate clasp. This he flipped open as well, revealing a single filled syringe inside, with a note attached to it.

Squinting by the warm light of the lamp, he held up the note to read.

"I apologise, Belief. For you were misguided, I had to set you back on the right path. Enclosed in this box is a potion, if you wish to revert to your old path and perspective."

The back of the note was scribbled with instructions on how to administer the antidote. The needle of transparent liquid winked at him, the numbers upon the plastic cylinder grinning away at him. Should he take it? The whisperings around him all said the same thing – no.

Whisperings? Maybe that was what made the doctor worried. He heard the nurses outside the office earlier, and judging from the look on his face there probably had been no such thing.

At least the voices did not bother him much after he woke up at work. He could concentrate without Naomi watching his back all the time. The voice that took after the forensics doctor would constantly point out all his typos, his mistakes, everything. Then he had to go back and correct it. Sometimes it also asked him to analyze something, and he had mistakenly rung up the real Naomi to ask what she had wanted him to look at. Of course his enquiry was met with confusion on her part, and embarrassment on his.

Hopefully he was not making her worried.

That or the codeine was beginning to mess with his thoughts.

Either way, the stuff looked tempting. He could just use it, and no need to eat the medication. Honestly the Zyprexa tablets were extremely awful to eat, and the Panadol tasted no different. He knew he should not be eating cough syrup every chance he got, but damn, that stuff tasted so good.

The voice he had labeled as Professor Blackwell told him to remember the label for the cough syrup again. What was in it? There had to be something that made him like the medication.

Oh wait. It had codeine in it. Of course. The chemical was just a derivative of heroin. It was only natural that he would like it. It was sweet too.

The professor sighed, pointing out that he should remember his chemistry facts better, especially if it came to medication. Panadol was for headaches, Codeine Linctus for cough and phlegm, Zyprexa for…

Schizos.

Crap. That would explain why Naomi and Professor Blackwell were talking to him. The doctor had prescribed him schizo meds. There was something clearly wrong with his brain.

Naomi said it would not matter, there was medication for it. The professor merely dismissed it as a crutch for his mind. Both said he was not schizophrenic.

Yet was that not what schizo patients all told themselves?

The professor said no, that was what everyone thinks. That was because of television and internet. There were patients that accepted the fact that they were schizo. Naomi merely insisted that he was not schizo, pointing out that he still had a relatively stable mind, and that he was not hallucinating visually, only aurally. That did not count towards schizophrenia that much… yet.

Professor Blackwell told him to put the syringe back. Wipe it with a cloth beforehand, in case the lab boys decide that he was trying to poison himself when he took it there for analysis tomorrow. Never leave your fingerprints on evidence. Except that he merely wanted to find out what the chemical is, and not think it was poison or anything. Naomi pointed out that the codeine in his system was not going to wait any longer, and that he had better get back to bed before the stuff really knocked him out.

He kept the note and the syringe back into the box, removing his fingerprints off the transparent plastic surface while doing so. Then he turned off the light, took the box and placed it right next to his medication on the side table, as Naomi and Professor Blackwell finally fell silent for the night.

Navel crawled into bed with a quiet sigh.


	7. πεποίθηση: Nivalin

Navel watched as the lab tech extracted a sample of liquid from the syringe.

"You got this from where again?"

"Uh…"

Professor Blackwell told him to say it was from the mail.

"… I got it in the mail. This morning."

The lab tech nodded as he coughed, transferring the sample into a test tube.

"Know who it's from?"

Naomi told him to keep his mouth shut. And cough instead.

"… Nope."

"Anon sent it, then. Know what it could be used for?"

He paused in his perpetual hacking.

"If I knew that, would I have sent it down here anyway?"

"Good point, sir."

He watched from the side as the lab tech carried out his tests with a furious precision – each drop of chemical added to the solution was exactly the amount as specified by the testing procedure – there had to be almost no room for error. He wondered if the coughing was irritating the poor guy.

The codeine he took that morning was starting to kick in again, even though it did nothing for the cough. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, trying to stay awake. Naomi whispered loudly in his ear, certain that her voice would keep him on his feet, at least. It was working… somewhat. He still felt very drowsy, without the strangely loud whisperings in one ear. The professor told him that he would still need to listen to whatever the lab tech was saying, so he would keep the other ear open. Naomi argued that he would not be able to listen if he fell asleep anyway, and he merely gave a shrug and pointed to the technician, who had a sheet of paper filled with scribbling in his hand.

"Special Investigator Navel? Are you feeling alright?"

"Uh… yeah. Sure. Just some medicine."

"Cough syrup, huh. In any case, I've finished with the testing."

"The substance is?"

"A protein. Not sure what it does, though. Could be an enzyme."

The lab tech handed the syringe back to him.

"Dr. Kimishima sent you down here?"

"Er… Not really. I picked this up at a crime scene."

"Ah."

"Thanks, anyway."

"Glad to help, sir."

Navel left the laboratory, holding the syringe in his hand. The doors closed silently behind him, and he was left alone in the hallway, silent except for the sound of his own wheezing.

He should get back to work.

His feet started him off down the corridor, passing by various doors, windows and potted plants.

A protein, eh. This was the antidote to whatever that woman had infected him with? Maybe it would clear his throat. It was getting extremely irritating to have his chest spasm for a few seconds every minute.

They were having another argument again. Naomi and Professor Blackwell's voices trailed along behind him, engaged in some vague debate. He did not bother to listen, for a headache had popped up, chewing away at the back of his skull.

The cough medicine should put him to sleep quickly.

Strange. The hallway did not seem to end. He counted the potted plants – one, two , three, four, five, the hallway should end here. Nope, it still stretched on. Funny how there were no more doors along the corridor now, there should be. Was the corridor repeating itself, or was the last portion being stretched out by some unknown means? He was not sure. The siren noise in the distance was not helping either, and his own coughing was clouding up his mind.

Naomi seemed to have won over the discussion behind him, her voice getting louder and louder with each step. What were they arguing about, anyway?

He looked down at the syringe in his hands. The liquid inside had turned purple for some reason.

Professor Blackwell suddenly shouted at him, telling him to put it away. There was nowhere else he could put it, for the box was in his office, and he was in this never-ending corridor. Naomi was shouting something else – incomprehensible.

Fine, fine. He put the syringe into his pocket. Immediately Naomi screamed at him, and he felt a sudden pair of hands close in around his shoulders, squeezing them tight, their fingernails cutting in deep into his skin, pulling him down onto the floor with a loud crash. The resounding white that erupted through his head momentarily blinded him, not unlike the bomb explosion. Someone was slapping him, trying to get him to wake up – Naomi was yelling at him to wake up. Wake up? Wake up?

He wrenched his eyes open.

The real Dr. Kimishima was staring down at him, anxiety creasing her pretty face, sweat beading on her cheek. She was panting, almost as if she had been shouting at him – shouting at him to wake up –

"….Doctor?"

His voice felt dry and rusty in his own throat, and he caught a faint taste of blood on his tongue, with a few droplets of the red liquid on the wall he was facing.

She let out a tired sigh and leaned back into a sitting position. He blinked, unsure of what to do, then started to get up. Only to get a hand pushing back down on his chest for the effort.

"Stay there, Little Guy."

"There's still work to do, isn't there?"

"And you're in no condition to continue. Just relax, the ambulance's coming."

Ah, the siren. It was a lot clearer now. So someone had called an ambulance.

"What happened?"

"You passed out outside the lab."

"Ah."

She pried something from his hand and held it up to her face.

"What is this?"

In place of his silence, his wheezing decided to act up again. This time, he caught quite a few drops of blood on his hand, and his throat was dreadfully itchy still… The voices were quiet. At least he could make his own judgment.

"… I picked it up from a crime scene."

"And you sent it for analysis?"

"Yeah."

She put the syringe into her pocket, and placed her hand on his forehead."

"You're running a fever. Didn't you go see the doctor?"

"Yeah."

"What did he give you?"

"Cough meds, Panadol and Zyprexa."

"Zyprexa?"

"Yeah. Schizo meds, I know. Don't know why he gave them to me."

"Have you been taking them regularly?"

The siren was a lot louder now, and he could hear the paramedics downstairs. In particular, a certain loudmouthed, feisty one seemed to be making her way up to the very corridor they were in already.

"I took them just this morning. All of them."

"Then why did you come to work? You should be at home resting."

"The paperwork needs to be done. And there would be things to analyze."

"You're sick, Little Guy. You really should have just stayed home. I could fill in your work for the day, you know."

"Doesn't matter. I can still work."

Hack, hack, hack. Naomi probably would not believe him.

A loud crash sounded from the other end of the corridor, followed by the thunderous stampede of footsteps.

"Where's the patient?!"

"Right here!" replied Naomi, pointing at his prone figure on the floor. "He's conscious, but we have to get him to the hospital!"

The voices were back, yelling at Maria to not touch him, to the real Naomi to get away from him, to the paramedics to turn back, there was nothing wrong with a person lying on the ground. Professor Blackwell suddenly yelled at the doctor, telling her to give back the syringe. Naomi was asking him to just take it out of her pocket and use it. Use it. Don't have to go to hospital and worry everyone.

He reached out towards the doctor kneeled beside him and grabbed the syringe out of her pocket, to her surprise, and plunged it down into his own wrist – just as the instructions had written.

And the world swirled into black with another explosion of pain.


	8. πεποίθηση: Diprivan

The corridors were plentiful now.

There were so many people. People everywhere. People all looking at him. Doctors, nurses, Resurgam, Caduceus.

He had been admitted to Caduceus USA, following his collapse, and the doctor had carried forward his brain scan. He heard something about it – the doctor conducted a chiral test afterwards.

Positive.

Warded in Caduceus, he had an oxygen mask strapped to his face, trapping the words he had in his throat. But it did not matter, there were words that he had already spoken before they put the mask on. Words of delusion, words of belief, words of the coming pandemic.

He felt like a priest, about to preach to the masses. About a certain topic.

Belief. The magic of blindness.

Yes, they would question him. They would reject him. No matter. Whatever magical potions that medicine cooked up for them, they would be of no use. Not until they found out the real reason why they believed. Why they had chosen to stay in the dark for so long. The angels around them would tell them the reason, be it good or bad, and they would accept it.

Somewhere in the depths of his mind, a certain being struggled against its chains, sobbing profusely. No notice was given to him – he would sit still there.

Guilt. Hah. No, GUILT. Belief. They had gone back to his office and searched, and they found the box. His name was Belief.

That being at the back of his mind was his host. The clever thing had decided to wake him up after all, and grant access to every single movement he had. Names do not matter.

Yes, he knew he was blind. That was the fault of the GUILT. The auditory hallucinations – the voices he heard in his head – were manifestations of GUILT's symptoms. He heard, he heard. The doctors were talking about it outside.

It seemed he was not the only one.

The lab tech would probably start the coughing first. And then if he was lucky, Naomi. And whoever they came into contact to after that. And his creator had specifically engineered this strain to be as resilient as the common cold. They would mistake it for that at first, but the cold does not have 'hallucinations' and 'blindness' under its symptoms, now does it? They would never notice.

No one expected a GUILT strain to be airborne, did they?

It was fine. His job was done here. Let the gentle breeze laced with the beliefs carry on with the rest of the work.

_**Good morning, Little Guy. You are the first Sinner - πεποίθηση. Belief.**_


	9. επιστήμη: Ready In Seven Eye-blinks?

In a third-world country, it seemed as though the wonders of medicine worked at least three times as fast.

Costigar was no different. The patients were always amazed to find out that the everyday illnesses they picked up from who knows where could be easily cured with western medicine. Their smiles when he declared each of them fully cured was priceless – and the very thing that he had been working hard for.

He would make his people proud.

The patients that came in to his clinic everyday showed him a range of diseases. From the common cold to malaria, from AIDS to lymphoma, the occasional Costigar Disease, and numerous others. It was a busy place, he never had any spare time to rest. It was work, work, twenty-four seven.

He was enjoying it every single minute of it, at least. The smiles.

Adel had come a long way from the person he once was a year ago, the eager young doctor ready to learn everything he could from the greatest doctors of the decade, the one with the insatiable thirst for medical knowledge. Now, he was one of the leading doctors in the frontlines of the recovery – Costigar was doing relatively well. They were on their way to being a peaceful country once more. Another step in the right direction.

The future had never looked better.


	10. επιστήμη: Surprise Already? Done

"Dr. Tulba?"

"Mmm?"

Adel looked up from his papers, clasping the slice of bread that was his breakfast between his teeth.

"You'd better finish that up, doctor. Your first appointment's in fifteen minutes."

"Thanks, Sylvia."

As the bubbly counselor left to deal with the morning's influx of patients, Adel quickly finished up his bread and coffee, put the newspapers aside and tidied up his table, ready for the day's work.

Busy, busy, busy as a bee.

The first patient was a little girl with a little medical mask wrapped around the bottom half of her face. She tottered up to him with her hands tucked into the pockets of her patch-up dress and placed herself on the chair, looking around his table. He raised an eyebrow in curiosity, looking at the door, expecting a woman to come in as well.

"Where're your parents, little girl?"

The girl looked at him out of a pair of large, tennis-ball sized eyes.

"They got blown up by a mine a week ago, doctor."

"Oh. That's... I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Kiha's whole family got shot yesterday. I'm lucky I still have my brother, at least."

The frankness of her tone, stating it as if it were just a matter of fact, reminded him once more about the horrors of war, albeit they were already recuperating. Someone really had to take care of the guerillas and the minefields, for they were still causing a lot of unnecessary heartbreak.

"Okay… so what's your name?"

"Mina."

"Nice to meet you, Mina," he said with a smile, "What seems to be the problem today?"

"I sneeze a lot, doctor. And I woke up today feeling bad."

"How so?"

"My body hurts, and my throat hurts too."

She coughed, covering her mask with her tiny hand. Adel quickly took it as a chance to scribble all her symptoms down, formulating his diagnosis in his mind.

"Looks like you're down with a cold, that's all. Nothing to worry about." He gave the girl another assuring smile, patting her on the head. "Just stay home, rest well and keep to your medication, and you'll be alright in a couple of days."

"Gee, thanks, doctor. I bet Coco's gonna be happy that I'm alright."

"Sure he will. Now, do you go to school?"

The girl grinned at him from behind the mask, and Adel could just see two blurry black gaps where her teeth would be.

"Of course not, doctor. Our school got blown up by the angry people last month."

"… Oh."

His hand froze midway, and tore out and crumpled the medical certificate he was about to issue in his palm. So much for a doctor's letter.

He hastily prescribed her a bottle of sweet cough syrup – kids loved those, he remembered.

"Are you okay with eating tablets, Mina?"

"I guess so."

"Okay." He added on a packet of decongestant to her prescription.

He pulled out one of those plastic spoons the pharmacy dispensed like free cakes each time someone got their meds and pointed to the larger oval.

"You just have to take one tablet and one this-sized spoonful of syrup every six hours, and lots of rest. You'll feel better in a week's time."

"Okay."

"Now go see the pharmacy on your way out. They'll give you your meds."

"Thank you, doctor!"

He sent her out with a sad smile. Such a pitiful child.

Sylvia came in a little while after the girl left, holding another stack of folders in her hand. This she placed on one side of his desk, and put her arms on her hips, pouting.

"Why so glum, doctor?"

"Uh… That girl earlier, her parents got blown up."

"Ah."

"Didn't anyone bring them in?"

The counselor frowned, a tinge of sadness clouding her eyes as she broke eye contact with him, looking towards the floor instead.

"The field medics didn't manage to save them in time. We lost them along with the few others that were in the area that day. She was assigned to me the day after, though, and yes I do admit that she's quite strong. Even for a child."

"Why couldn't the medics save them?"

Sylvia's head snapped back up, her eyes wide open in shock.

"Dr. Tulba…"

He realized that he had slammed his palms on the table in a temper and yelled at her. Pursing his lips, he sat back down, motioning for her to continue.

"They… The medics told me that they had expired due to blood loss before they could reattach the limbs, doctor."

"Too slow. Too slow."

Sylvia sighed, and replaced her frown with an apologetic smile.

"We can't save everyone, Dr. Tulba. But we're doing the best we can, one person at a time. It'll all work out in the end, you'll see."

"… I… I hope so."

"Good!"

Sylvia clapped her hands together, smiling. Then she gave a little gasp, turned around and dug around in her bag, retrieving a small paper-wrapped box tied with string.

"This should make you cheer up."

She placed the box on his table, and Adel could see a small tag tied to one end of the string. It had his name written in English, letters large enough for him to read without pulling the tag up to his face.

"Guess who it's from?"

"Who?"

She giggled, and Adel was reminded of the same kind of giggle a young girl would have, when she held a petty secret and a friend would ask her about it.

"It's from Derek, silly!"

The room was silent save for her laughter, as he tried to comprehend the meaning of the conversation.

"Derek…? As in, Dr. Stiles?"

"Yes!" Her laughter was even louder, now, presumably because he felt his face flush with warmth. "Go on, open it. You deserve whatever he's sent you, doctor. You work so hard."

She turned back to the door, giving him a friendly wave as she stepped out.

"I'll be going on my rounds now, see you later!"

Adel checked his schedule. The next patient would be in fifteen minutes. Perfect, enough time to unwrap Derek's present. What was in it? Did Derek think it was his birthday or something?

He laughed inwardly at the inner fan-boy still wriggling about with excitement in his head. Some things never changed.

"I wonder what Dr. Stiles got me."

A few minutes later, the brown wrapping paper, still in its original rectangular shape, lay on his desk, the string used to wrap it curled up nicely in the middle. The package – a box, sat upon his lap, whose lid he flipped open with eager anticipation.

Inside was a small bottle of white powder, no bigger than the size of his thumb. Folded and tucked under the bottle lay a small, folded note. This Adel took out to read, a letter from Derek.

"Adel –

So long we haven't kept in touch, have we? Caduceus is a little quieter now, but we're still busy as always. Isn't that the life of a doctor? Except that we decided to make a little something for you, as thanks for your help at Caduceus, even though it was extremely brief. Not that Victor wanted to say that he made it all himself, but yeah, and we think that you would put it to good use, back at your home country. Costigar is recovering well, yes? Enjoy it!

– Derek Stiles, Caduceus USA."

Sighing, he folded up the note and placed it back into the box along with his present. It was so nice of Derek to send him something, even if his schedule made his words feel a little mangled on the paper.

He let himself have a small laugh about it, and decided to get back to work.


	11. επιστήμη: Failure About Instant Loss

"An operation?"

"Yeah. You feeling up to it?"

"Of course."

Sylvia paused, the patient's charts still held in her hand.

"You sure you're okay? It's three in the morning, and this has got to be – what, the third operation for today?"

Adel nodded.

"I can keep going."

"Ooo… kay. In any case, here."

She placed the charts in his hand, pointing out the problem area for that procedure. The liver. A strain of GUILT. Kyriaki, as identified by the notes scribbled onto the chart.

The training he had gotten back at the HOA. How to treat GUILT strains, and the protocols for doing so.

It was not the first time someone with GUILT had ended up here, but for most cases they were referred to Caduceus for further treatment. Apparently there was something up with the GUILT that they wanted to look into, he was not sure about that. One of the cons of staying in a third-world country, he supposed. But a little strange that said patient was not getting referred, no?

"No referral?"

"Well, she's in critical condition. And she came in at about midnight."

"…What?!"

Immediately he took off into a run, sprinting towards the makeshift tent that functioned as the makeshift operating theater.

"Why didn't you tell me that?!"

Sylvia was right behind him, but he could hear her panting away at the sudden rush. Maybe getting so pumped up at three in the morning was not a good idea for her. But there was a patient to save. That was more important.

Throwing open the doors, he yanked a pair of sterilized gloves onto his hands and strapped on the scrubs, proceeding to the operating table as he did so. The patient was already anesthetized and lying on the cold metal, the covers draped simply over her thin legs. The nurses – the few that were still awake at this hour – were all set and ready to go.

"Alright. Kyriaki in the liver, was it?"

Adel picked up a cotton swab, dipping it in the bottle of antibiotic gel and disinfecting the area. The blade of the scalpel he pressed into the flesh, opening a cut on the patient's torso big enough to see the liver.

"Chiral reaction positive. Get ready, doctor."

In that instant a small, bluish parasite darted out onto the organ, pausing in its movement long enough for Adel to recognize it. A Kyriaki.

Laser. Right.

His hands fumbled for the laser and aimed its red beam at the offending parasite. It wriggled about as he chased it down with the scorching beam, until it just burnt up and no visible trace of it was left.

"That's one down."

"Chiral reaction still positive. Maybe you could use the ultrasound to find any hidden ones?"

Adel nodded, switching to the ultrasound now. A quick scan of the liver revealed two more Kyriaki swimming around just under the outer membrane of the liver, both of which he chased out into the open with two small incisions directly in their paths. The laser swiftly killed one of said parasites, but the other was proving rather difficult to aim at.

With a loud rip, the Kyriaki dived down towards the membrane, tearing up a large slit on the surface of the liver. In that same instant the EKG bleeped, and a few numbers on display fell.

"Doctor!"

"On it, Sylvia." A jab of stabilizer later, the vitals shot back towards their original number. Adel sighed, proceeding to stitch up the inflicted wound with the sutures. Once the wound was sealed, he turned back to the Kyriaki – and managed to burn it to ashes, this time.

"Ultrasound. Got to check if there's any left."

Thankfully, there was not. Adel then closed up the patient, applying both stitches, gel and bandages to the operation site.

"Operation complete. She should have a full recovery."

But just as he was about to remove his gloves, the EKG gave a particularly loud bleep. Sylvia ran over to check on it, and pointed at the patient in surprise.

"Chiral reaction still positive! There's something else in there!"

Immediately Adel removed the bandages and sutures, peeling the skin away carefully to look for any more Kyriaki. Sure enough, a large amount of lacerations had appeared on the brownish organ, with blood spilling out into the cavities of the body. A large Kyriaki floated about lazily on the carnage it had caused, as if it was mocking the doctor.

"A… A large one?!"

The vitals on the EKG were falling rapidly. Adel had two options: Close all the wounds first, or remove the Kyriaki.

Grabbing the sutures, he stitched up the first liver wound he saw, only to have the Kyriaki swim over and slice open three more in his wake.

"What the…?"

This time, the Kyriaki was his first priority. Yet it was too quick for his laser, dodging the lethal red beam at every last moment. He swore he could hear it laughing away at him, mocking his skills as a doctor…

"The vitals, Dr. Tulba!"

With his other hand, he plunged the syringe full of stabilizer into the patient, as the Kyriaki pulled off yet another narrow escape from his laser, waggling its tail at him. The vitals got a little boost, but he knew it would not last for long.

"Die already!"

Unluckily for him Kyriaki could not, or would not understand him, instead choosing to open up a few more lacerations on the already strained liver, nullifying the effects of that previous shot of stabilizer. Teeth gritting in fury, he continued the chase, but the clock was ticking away and so were the patient's vitals –

"Doctor! The patient's vitals are critical!"

"I know!"

But whenever he tried to administer another shot of stabilizer, the Kyriaki would just walk up and slice another three gashes in. There was not much time left…

At that point he wished he still had Sige.

No, no no no. Sige was that Neo-GUILT. No, never again. Not after it had caused him to go mad and attack Derek. Sure, it gave him a 'Healing Touch', but not without the price it had inflicted on his brain.

"Doctor!"

Sylvia's cry snapped him out of his thoughts and back to the operation. Right, the patient was first. He would do everything he can to save her!

Except that his mind was suddenly replaced by a long, monotonous beep.

In his daze he felt someone pulling him away from the operating table, setting him down upon a chair. The noise and people walking around were a blur to him, and out of the corner of his vision field he saw a few hazy shapes push a stretcher out of the tent. The noise and colors went with them, and eventually there was only silence and him sitting in the operating theatre.

Adel looked up at the operating table. It was empty. The EKG sat forlornly to the side, its monitor switched off.

He had failed to save a patient.


	12. επιστήμη: Helping Enemies Leash Peace

It was five in the morning.

Adel sat alone in his little clinic, his hands held up to his face. That little girl, as Sylvia had later informed him, was the same one that he had met only hours earlier – Mina. That poor little girl.

All because of him. He got distracted at the last moment. And miscalculated. He did not anticipate the large Kyriaki to appear.

But other than that, there was that Kyriaki. Of which he had been too slow to remove it. And of course, that large one that managed to run off with her life by dicing her liver to bits.

Once again he wished he still had the Healing Touch. Who cared if it was bad for him, it let him save people, at least.

No, he should not think that way. Who knew what would happen if he accidentally spread Sige to the patient while operating? Besides, there was no way he could get hold of the Neo-GUILT again, with Acropolis and the HOA taken down by Caduceus. And he would let Derek, not to mention all the people he had met and made friends with at the USA branch, down. Not again.

An errant thought popped into his mind. What was that stuff Derek gave him anyway?

Trying as hard as he could to put the operation out of his mind for that moment, he pulled out the small bottle, its contents glittering slightly under the incandescent lamp on his table. Derek said he could put it to good use here. He wondered what the doctor meant.

Maybe it was some sort of drug. Or maybe it was just talc. After all, he never said what the white powder was supposed to be – only something that Victor probably made.

Was it an immunity drug? To the common diseases around here, then?

He stared at the bottle. The amount of white powder sitting inside the glass tube was probably no more than a mouthful, maybe a few syringes if he were to dilute whatever it was. Was he supposed to treat patients with this? A test sample?

Wait. Immediately administering it to patients would not be ethical. And he most certainly did not want to lose his precious medical license over a bout of unauthorized human testing. But going through the usual phases of animal testing would probably use up a lot of the powder – not to mention he really was not sure of what to look out for after administering said powder anyway.

He could at least try and determine what the powder was, though. Grabbing a microscope from a nearby shelf, he tapped out a few grains of powder onto a Petri dish and slipped it under the lens before peering in.

Round grains stared back at him, in a most decidedly non-crystalline arrangement. Whatever it was, it certainly looked more of an organic component than a bunch of powdered crystals.

'BOOM!'

The blast shook the entire site, flinging bottles and files off their shelves, which smashed into smithereens upon their landing. Adel himself was thrown off his feet, crashing onto the ground just as a stray file knocked the microscope off his table, the impact of the ground crushing it into bits and pieces of broken metal. The bottle he had placed nearby exploded, sending up a large cloud of powder, coating the air before the doctor in an opaque white. Fumbling uncertainly for the table, Adel tried to stand up – only to get knocked back down at the sound of another explosion.

"Wha-What's going on?!"

Waving the dust away from his face, he managed to crawl towards the entrance of his clinic and peered outside.

Around him was a sight that he had only last seen nearly a year ago. Guerillas had stormed the place, guns akimbo as they fired away at all the personnel they saw, looting the deserted tents for valuables and people. Adel watched in horror as they raided the rest of the camp, taking what they wanted and destroying the rest, until nothing was left except a desecrated refugee camp.

He sat there dumbfounded at the carnage. He was a doctor, not a soldier, and most certainly not a magician. He could do nothing against the rain of bullets.

One of the guerrillas found the young doctor huddled away in the corner of his clinic, clasping onto what was left of the powder-containing bottle, the glass shards cutting deep into his hands, red blood staining his clothes with mottles of dark red. With strength that could match that of a wrestler, he hauled Adel out back into the open, dumping him unceremoniously in a clearing – where he was surrounded by the rest of the rebel soldiers – all built like gorillas, their hulking arms more than ready to let their trigger-happy fingers lease those lethal, lethal bullets and make him spill his insides onto the ground.

"What have we here?"

The guerrilla that brought him out kicked him in the back with a large boot. He winced, for the boot was hard, and had smacked him squarely on his backbone.

"A doctor, sir. Hiding in his tent like the coward he is."

Adel cringed at the words and the spittle that came raining out of the big man's mouth. A coward?!

Somewhere he felt something warm lick at his chest. A funny feeling, perhaps, rage or spite, but he quickly doused it with reason. The only thing he would accomplish by talking back would probably be earning a hole in his head. And maybe the dust clogged up his windpipe - he felt a lot of coughing coming on too, and those he swallowed down too before they could do any damage.

"Doctor, eh. We could use him to treat the injuries. Bring him back, I suppose."

Oh, at least he would live. But it felt too familiar – defecting to the enemy. Like from Caduceus to the HOA. But that time, he was a willing party. This time he was being taken against his will, but all the same, defecting. All the same.

At the command of their leader, the guerrillas bound his arms and legs together with rope – the same rope that held a lot of the tents down onto the ground – and wrapped his eyes up in a smelly cloth. They then threw him onto somewhere hard and smelled of feet, while in his ears a low rumbling sent him off to his unknown destination.


	13. επιστήμη: Seems It's Going Everywhere

Wherever he was taken to, it smelt horrible.

He was still blindfolded, alright. And tied up. And probably sitting in the same place for hours now. He dared not to sleep, lest his captors came back and he died while dreaming. That would not do, that would not do!

Time – he had lost track of that already. So much for treating the injured, eh?

Briefly he wondered if Sylvia or any of the other medical staff managed to escape the siege. Were they all dead or had they run off to another camp? Did the rebels go after the other refugee camps to? If so then who were still left? How many casualties? Who were said casualties?

The metal door of the room slammed open. Heavy footsteps echoed along the stone walls, growing louder and closer with each passing second. Adel brought up an imaginary hand in his mind and began to count, clop, clop, clop, clop, clop.

There was a low 'shlick' sound, and the force binding his arms and legs suddenly loosened. He sighed, wringing his hands together, slightly glad that the blood circulation had resumed. The pins in his hands were beginning to irritate him.

A rough hand grabbed at his blindfold, ripping it off and exposing his eyes to the dim light that hung in the middle of his cell. Momentarily dazed, he rubbed his forehead with a hand, swallowing any cough that was about to choke itself up his neck.

The guerrilla's hand shot out and snapped around his shoulder in a crippling grip, and he was hoisted up into a standing position. Adel wriggled nervously, relaxing only when the response he got was the barrel of an assault rifle pointed directly at his face.

"You gonna give me trouble, doctor?"

"N-No," Adel replied, shrinking away under the withering gaze of the soldier

"Then you have work to do."

He was pushed out into a corridor, no better lit than the cell he was just in. Taking the pressure of the cold metal barrel pressed into the small of his back as his map, he walked on, taking note of the directions. Pass two doors forward, where the sounds of gunshots and laughter can be heard. Turn the corner, ignore the fact that there are quite obvious puddles of some unknown (and possibly not wanting to be known) liquid scattered among the numerous shells of discarded ammunition. The temperature lowers, ignore the chills, for the gun behind you does not like it when you stop to shiver for any reason. And then, then came the 'operating theater'.

Why would Adel drop it between two quotation marks? For the room he was led to have not the smell of antibiotic gel like he was used to, it was replaced with something that was probably a mixture of sweat, blood and infection. Oh, and add death to the list as well, when he noted a small pile of bodies lumped together in a box near the entrance, as if it was just another pile of trash to take out.

He noticed that the bodies all had skinny arms and legs, quite unlike the rebel soldiers he saw before him.

Ignorance seemed to be the motif for the day. The doctor was pushed along to one of the tables, on it laid a soldier that was clearly injured and in pain. Shock had already worn off. The injury was from quite some time ago. The attack on the refugee camp, probably.

"You're a doctor, right? Treat him. And don't worry, you've got more to do after that."

Adel gulped down whatever answer he had to that, and picked the crude bandages off the patient's bloodied leg. A large gash stared back at him, its bleeding slowed considerably, to the point that he could see blobs of brown and black ringing the wound.

"I… I need light."

He got handed a cigarette lighter.

"Don't you have anything better?"

"You giving me lip, coward?"

Adel clamped down on his answer. Trouble was only a statement away.

"V-Very well. But you would have to hold it over the wound while I operate."

The soldier was at least willing to cooperate on that. By the orange glow of the lighter's flame, Adel could pick out the glints of four shotgun bullets lodged deep into the flesh. Close enough.

A few quick plucks of the forceps later, he had all four bullets sitting on the table beside him.

"Sutures."

A roll of thread bonked the side of his head, and it took all the self-control he had not to yell about it. The wound would not stitch itself up, however, he turned his attention back to that.

Once he was done, he heard a little click from behind him. Instantly, whatever blood he had rushed down to his feet.

"Half an hour. No good, doctor, that's too slow! People get hurt faster than that out on the field!"

He was being timed?!

"You can't rush a procedure! If I were to do anything wrong, your friend there would get injured more!"

And he regretted his outburst, just as soon as that gorilla hand seized his collar and dangled him only inches from the soldier's face.

"I said, you are too slow."

He was swung away, tumbling into a pile of boxes in the corner of the operating theater, which splintered apart under the force and his weight, spilling more corpses and ammo everywhere. Disgusted, Adel crawled out of the wreckage, only to get stomped on the head by the laughing soldier.

"When I say you're slow, doc. I mean it. Don't worry, though. Boss gave me something that'll make you a whole lot faster."

The possible things the soldier was referring to flipped themselves around in his mind like the pages of an open book: A non-lethal gun wound, torture, poison, a bomb strapped to his back, getting beaten up if he could not finish a procedure, starvation – the book was not going to end any time soon, was it?

He felt the raspy breath of the soldier down his neck, looks like he had decided to bend down. In doing so, he tried struggling, but the leg was sturdy and kept his head pinned against the ground.

"Struggle some more and I'll really make sure that it hurts."

Adel complied silently, only to feel the sharp tip of a needle pierce the skin on his neck.

That was it. Needles, the speed at which one can operate, it made more sense. But no! He did not want this! Not again!

But struggling was futile, for as Sige shot down the needle and into his bloodstream Adel just had no choice but to comply.


	14. επιστήμη: Does Everything Always Die?

He laughed inwardly at the irony.

Instead of being confined to the cell he had first woken up in, he got delegated to the 'operation theater' instead. The one with the boxes of corpses stacked at the sides, yes.

The headache was coming back.

Quickly, before more patients arrived. Adel snatched the bottle of aspirin from the shelf and popped a few of the tablets into his mouth. That should give him about two hours' worth of relief – enough to tide him over the next operation.

"Hey! We've got a few more coming in!"

Unceremoniously, yet another soldier was dumped onto the table, his groans eliciting no other help from the two burly men that had brought him on the old stretcher. Adel sighed and went over, pulling on a fresh surgical mask.

"Got some more, doc. Just a second."

"Oh. How many?"

"Frickin' mine took out at least three people."

"… I see."

The soldier threw a bag at him. Prying open its mouth Adel found a rather grim collection – six human legs, all detached and still bleeding.

"… Um. You're lucky you found all the legs, at least."

He looked up, just as they were done with bringing in the other two. A total of three wounded soldiers and six legs.

A twisted child's idea of a simple matching game, probably. Except that there was also the consideration of rejection, especially if he matched them wrongly.

He caught the soldier's expectant gaze, and silently willed himself to continue with the operation.

Leaving the six legs on another table, he set himself to work, removing the bandages and scraps of tan-red splotched cloth. The severed stumps of all three patients soon came into view, or at least, as much as he could see with only a flashlight to aid him. Ripped, flaky and dripping chunks of flesh set around a hole where the femur would have been, if it had not been so forcibly removed.

Right, he was still being timed.

Concentrating hard on his hands, he eased himself into that trance-like state that he had gotten used to back at the HOA. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, slowing down the very hands of the clock that ticked away in the soldier's hand, as he picked up the plates and sutures and pulling the nearest patient towards him. Reattach the leg, place the bone back in its normal position, pull it into place, stitch the flesh back together with the needle and thread, plaster it all with antibiotic gel, wrap it down with a bandage. Good, all done – one leg and two more patients to go.

Beginning on the other leg, ignore the buzzing headache that was coming back.

Stitch the blood vessels together, jam the bone in, make sure it is secure, wrap it up with a mix of sutures, antibiotic gel and bandages. Ignore whatever the soldier's saying, ignore the patient's cries. It is just the shock wearing off. He would feel pain, of course. There was no anesthesia to administer!

The other patients would also be starting to feel again. He grabbed another pair of legs and got started on the second patient – remove debris, clean the wound, jam the bone right back into place, glue the seams of flesh back together with the antibiotic gel, reinforce it with the stitches, wrap it all in bandage. Next leg, just slot the bone back in, glue it together, wrap it, then stitch the remaining bits back in. Other than the fact that the cloth on one leg did not match the other for this patient, he was all set on recovery.

Third. Adel sighed, settling into the routine, ignoring the crescendo of shouts and cries around him. Pull off any pieces of the browning flesh away from the pelvis, stick the bone in, glue it down with the gel, wrap it all up till the affected area is the same width as the rest of the leg, stitch the surrounding flesh to the bandage. Good. Now for the last—

His procedure was interrupted with a large hand grabbing hold of his wrist, crushing it under its grip, causing him to drop the forceps onto the operating table. There was shouting in his ear, it seemed to be playing out of a slowed-down tape recorder. No, he had to keep going. The patient was going to die if he did not see to it!

Wrenching his arm out of the person's grasp, he simply grabbed the remaining leg and jammed it straight up into the wound, not caring whether the debris had been removed or not. With his other hand, he pulled tight the ring of bandage around the wound and stitched the fleshy gaps shut.

The person grabbed his torso, adamant on moving him away from the operating table. He must need a procedure as well.

His hand – the one that held the needle in it – raised itself towards the soldier's face, closing up all five holes in less three seconds. That seemed to do the trick, he was free, but the patient – he needs attention.

Adel stepped forward and pushed the soldier onto another operating table, pinning him down by the throat and finishing off his stitches. Oh, and looks like there's something moving under his throat – better remove it, just to make sure that he is not choking. Oh, it's nothing, just the Adam's Apple. Adel stitched the hole he had cut open there shut, just as the patient finally relaxed.

Good.

Oh, his hands have gotten all sweaty. And he did not wear gloves during the procedures too. How naughty of him.

There was a thrashing on the tables behind him. Turning around, he saw that all three patients, with their now reattached legs, were screaming and scratching at the bandages. Annoyed, he pushed every single one of them back down onto the table, ramming the needle and thread through their faces as well, for good measure.

Now, this was a war. Where were all the other patients?

Humming to himself, Adel strolled out of the room, surgical instruments in hand and a slasher's grin on his bloodstained face.


	15. επιστήμη: Caduceus Under Red Examination

The soldiers did not expect a single thing.

Of course! He was a doctor. Hippocratic Oath and everything. They thought he was offering them treatment, or painkiller, something like that. But all in all, he merely led them back to the operating theatre, gave them their just treatment, and left them to recover. All of them were screaming – Adel blamed the fact that there was no anesthesia anywhere and he had to resort to the old fashioned way – by making sure their irritating noise could not be heard.

Not now, not later, not ever.

They started shooting at him, after a while. It did not hurt. Sige merely told him to extract his own bullets, throw them aside, and stitch up the remaining wounds with sutures and antibiotic gel. It did not hurt.

At least, until someone tried to shoot at his head.

First his eyes went, blinded by the flash of the bullet whizzing past his face. Then his voice, as he opened his mouth in a silent scream. Then the lacerations all over his hands appeared – these he quickly soaked in liquid until they blended in with the color of his skin – red. So much red. So, so much red everywhere.

As his eyes cleared, he found a pair of eyeballs in his clutches, one in each hand, and the soldier that tried to shoot him before kneeling at the ground screaming and clutching his face. Adel pushed him onto his back and whipped out his sutures, pressing the eyes back into their sockets and sewing them shut, and watched as the lacerations too, appeared on the man's face, ripping it apart from within. Oh, right, he had still not bothered to clean his hands yet. No, not yet. Not until the world has seen what the symbiosis of parasites within him can do.

Sige and… The note. Derek. Derek sent him this gift. The gift of Science.

Hm. He should pay Derek a visit. After all, what better way to say thanks for the gift that could destroy an army?

_**Good afternoon, Adel Tulba. You are the second Sinner - επιστήμη. Science.**_


	16. πραγματικότητα: The Tune of a Music Box

That feeling one gets when they get set free. For him, it was still by far the best feeling he ever had. Well, second only to the elation that he felt when he knew he had rescued a friend from the clutches of his sister's incarnation.

Looks like all that time in the cold froze his brain as well. Maria would have a field day with that poet in his head if she knew what he was thinking.

Other than that, he was not separated from the people he had gotten to know at all. The man in charge of him had presented him, on the last day of his captivity, with a job offer – to the very hospital that he was working off his sentence at.

Of course, the rest of the staff was overjoyed at his acceptance. Maybe it was the fact that he did his job relatively well, in his opinion, unlike some people who seemed to love exaggerating about him, or maybe it was the relationships he had forged during the fiery nightmare that was the Rosalia pandemic. Either way, he was pulled back into the family with open arms.

Prisoner CR-S01, or as the nametag on his lab coat read 'Dr. Erhard Muller', still could not help but feel like he was missing something. Or maybe he was going to miss something. One of the two, maybe both. He was not sure.

Not like he should be bothered by that.


	17. πραγματικότητα: The Melody of a Circus

People seemed to be coming down with the cold lately. All the sneezing and coughing around Resurgam was starting to drive him a little nuts. He took precautions from it, though, wrapping his face up with a sterile mask and washing his hands before and after meals. Plus, his office – or cell, however you decided to put it – was still maintained at a temperature of ten degrees Celsius. Kills off most of those pathogens he was working against.

"Hey! Moron!"

Oh, it was Maria. Dashing down the corridor, she ran straight up to him, plonking an envelope into his hands. He stared at it in surprise, wondering what it was all about.

"Keep it safe! And run if you value your life!"

With a laugh, the first responder continued in her mad run, scaring the nurses out of the way as she sprinted right out into the lobby. Erhard sighed, and took a look inside the envelope.

A selection of pictures, all of the diagnostician – in the most awkward poses spilled into his hand. sleeping on his desk with his feet propped up and a large doodle on his face, stuffing his face with food from the pantry's fridge, even one of drunkenly serenading? To the robot in his room?

"Maria!"

Whoops, looks like the man himself had come round. Erhard was not sure what to do – make a run for it, or just hand him the pictures. Either way, before he could decide, Gabe had already spotted him and was heading his way.

"Hey kid, you seen Maria anywhere?"

The lanky diagnostician was quite the sight. Black marker smudges on one side of his face, and an expression that easily shouted 'Hangover!' His hair was scruffy as it had always been, except someone seemed to have tied a rather large ribbon on it, making him look as if he was wearing a ponytail.

"…. Um…"

"Ah, screw it. She's getting further every second I waste."

With that the doctor ran off as well, leaving Erhard standing alone in the corridor, envelope of incriminating pictures in his hand, and a hard urge to laugh. Except that smiling here would probably scare a whole lot of staff and patients alike.

He continued on, stuffing the photos into his pocket. He would return them to Maria or Gabe later on, whoever he ran into first again.

"…. Aah-choo."

Looks like even Tomoe was not immune to the cold. She strolled past him, blowing her nose in a flowery little handkerchief. The dainty little endoscopist sniffled, then turned to him, her nose bright red from irritation, her voice choked.

"You might want to be careful. The… Aah-choo! Cold is quite rampant now."

"…. Sure, Tomoe."

She nodded curtly at him and went along her way. That was a grand total of two staff down with the cold now… Emma had filed for medical leave just the day before. Hopefully there will not be any more, for then Resurgam would be short on staff. Gabe once told him of another hospital that fell short – people doing extra work left and right, with no rest in between. That would be extremely stressful, and not to mention wreak havoc on two certain someones' tempers.

His thoughts turned towards the photos again. Was Gabe drunk or something? Surely he must not have been sober to try and sing to RONI, even more so with the fact that he has a wife and son. What was he thinking?

Erhard fished the pictures out and checked them again. The office window in the background had light streaming through it. Daytime. What was Gabe doing drunk in the day? He had appointments, for goodness' sake. Patients would most certainly not want to see a drunk doctor, let alone get treated by them.

He sighed. Guess he'd better return the pictures to the diagnostician instead, then. Maria would be the kind to pull that sort of joke on him, what with him previously switching her cup of cocoa with a cup of the same drink, except that it had been left in his old cell for an hour, and she had downed the chilly drink without a second thought. The prank wars that they would wage on each other were certainly entertaining to watch, but never fun to get involved in – Maria getting Darnell to spike Gabe's coffee for one, ended up with the poor nurse getting shouted at from the third floor to the first.

It was not even April, let alone Fool's Day.

He continued on, listing out the things he had to do for the day in his head. His rounds, a few procedures, a meal, some reports, and then the extra time just in case of emergencies. A busy day, huh.

As he turned the corner, his foot bumped into something stashed pretty near the wall. Bending down to examine it, he realized that it was a little bag, the kind that young women nowadays would carry around with them, just missing any kind of brand mark. It felt pretty solid, though. Strange.

Picking it up, he unzipped it, and found a jumble of wires staring back at him, along with a large screen with bright red digits flashing on it.

Was this one of Gabe's or Maria's jokes?!

The numbers were counting down, ten, nine, eight, seven. He could hear his heart beating in time to the timer's beeps, for the air around them had suddenly slowed to a stop.

Six, five, four.

Erhard cried out in shock, for the realization that he was holding a bomb just popped into his head, and the timer had already left him with only four seconds. The whirring of the mechanism inside held its monotonous, ominous tune, humming a steady rhythm as time continued on with its death march.

Three, two, one.

The blinding white light and the billow of smoke that followed pulled the curtains of the third opening act upwards, and the walls of Resurgam First Care down to the ground. The third act was starting, the applause of falling and crumbling bricks and mortar giving it the much needed push.

The show is set into motion.


End file.
